


The House with the Barn

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, Comforting Dean, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, References to Canon, Scared Castiel, Thunderstorms, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7980412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why angels?" Cas asks, squinting through eyes sleeted with rainwater and tears. "They sound p-pleasant."</p><p>"You'd think, but they gave me these." Dean gestures to the orange cluster of constellations around his nose. "At least that's what my mom told me. I hate my freckles."</p><p>Cas takes a good look at the boy. From hay-colored hair poking way up high to eyes like spindle leaves, and puffed-out, raspberry-red lips. The freckles are a stark contrast to his white skin, but they're not unattractive. "W-what else can angels do?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House with the Barn

**Author's Note:**

> Yes!! I've always wanted to write a thunderstorm!au.
> 
> I haven't had much time to read through my work, so all mistakes are mine.

 

Dean and Cas meet in the Winchester's barn, a giant oak outhouse a couple acres from his house, when Dean finds Cas crouched in the corner in his bee-striped pajamas after Cas runs through his backyard, through a field of wet grass with weeds that have hands long enough to wrap around his tiny legs and pull him down.

Thunderstorms are the broccoli of Castiel’s existence: if he’s just _reassured_ no harm would come to him, he'd be more equipped to swallow his fear. Instead his father gripes at Cas to get over it, and his mother’s anxiety over the tiles flying off the roof again (which they always did, and they always made Cas more anxious too).

Dean opens the creaky door to the shed, flashlight scoping the room like a beacon on final call for lost ships. He flips a switch that brings every overhead bulb to a slow blink and then Cas can see occult-like symbols scrawled on the walls.

"W-what're those?"

Dean bends down next to Cas and follows his shaking hand. "It's for protection against angels."

"Why angels?" Cas asks, squinting through eyes sleeted with rainwater and tears. "They sound p-pleasant."

"You'd think, but they gave me these." Dean gestures to the orange cluster of constellations around his nose. "At least that's what my mom told me. I hate my freckles."

Cas takes a good look at the boy. From hay-colored hair poking way up high to eyes like spindle leaves, and puffed-out, raspberry-red lips. The freckles are a stark contrast to his white skin, but they're not unattractive. "W-what else can angels do?"

Dean smiles, shrugging off and fixing the raincoat he was wearing around Cas's shoulders before he telling him a story. The best one Cas has ever heard, in fact. And that's saying something, because he reads a lot of books.  The story of how the angels fell is heartbreaking, maddening, and frightening at the same time.

Unfortunately, Cas is in no condition to hear it through. Instead, his body seems to treat it as a bedtime story, and soon, his eyes become weighted with sleep before slipping into oblivion with floating spindle leaves.

***

Cas awakes with a startle. A startle not only because his lungs feel like someone slipped jumbo-size icepacks between his ribs, but because the person a few feet from the foot of his bed— _not_ his bed, he realizes while trapped between a mattress that makes him feel like he’s drowning the way he sinks a lot into it, and five blankets—is his neighbor, Dean.

His head’s lolled on his shoulder, his eyes are closed, and he’s snoring softly. He’s wearing the same clothes from last night, minus the raincoat, which reminds Cas eerily of a yellow ghost the way it hangs off the wooden knob of the chair he’s sleeping in.

His efforts to move are largely supported by a grunt. It’s enough to wake Dean, who’s by Cas’s side in an instant. “Cas, hey,” he urges. His eyes are wide enough to bulge out of his sockets the way Cas has seen in movies he should’ve never watched. “Are you okay?”

“You-what… what happened?”

“ _What happened?_ You scared the hell outta me, that’s what happened!”

“Dean, that’s a bad word.”

Dean shakes his head, laughing. Cas doesn’t understand what’s funny. Then Dean’s hand is on his forehead. His hand is cool, but not cold, even though, to Cas’s body, it feels like he’s wearing popsicles on each finger, minus the stickiness. “You passed out in the shed after I found you. You’re alright now,” he rules out, sitting next to Cas as he peels back the blankets like an onion—a very _sweaty_ onion. “Little warm, but that’s probably ‘cos of all the blankets. I think it was a concussion, at least that’s what Uncle Bobby says.”

“Oh,” Cas says dumbly, sitting up and rubbing his head. It does feel weird. Though, not as weird as wearing no shirt and pants in a stranger’s bed. Cas hardly ever strips down to his underwear, not even to take a bath. “You live with your uncle?”

Dean nods, and then squints. “Yeah, you don’t?”

“No. I just live with my mom and dad.”

“Oh, my parents died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to… you know.”

Dean’s mouth purses in question. “To what?” he asks.

They’re really close. Closer than Cas has been with other kids his age. Cas doesn’t have many friends, not after his classmates laughed at his pajamas on an overnight school field trip, so his people skills, as his mother calls them, are a little rusty.

“Trespassed.” It slips out before Cas can take it back. “I’m sorry I trespassed, I mean.”

Dean laughs, but it’s not rude, or fake the way adults laugh at other adult’s comments, “You really hate storms, huh?” Dean nods again, this time facing the ground. “I get it.”

“You do?”

“‘Course I do. Those things can smite you where you stand.”

Cas gulps, eyes widening. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says before placing a hand over Cas’s. Cas jumps a little at the sudden contact, but rivals the sincerity of Dean’s gaze. “But you’re safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Something washes over Cas. It feels like that time his family went to California on summer break and he sat on the shore of the beach too long. The only thing that could sooth the stinging was aloe vera. Dean’s the sunburn on his forehead, on his ears, on his neck, his shoulders. He’s not sure what role fits the aloe vera; just that he doesn’t get any relief until Dean removes his hand. But now Cas’s hand just feels empty.

“Bobby talked to your folks and said you can stay as long as you need to today to get back on your feet,” Dean says. “You can borrow any of my clothes, they’re in that second drawer next to the bathroom, and your PJs are in the laundry room. I’ll go get them.”

Cas smiles and pulls the comforter over him shyly. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah. Oh and if you want to eat something, the kitchen is downstairs. Whatever you do, _don’t_ touch the strudels. My baby brother may be five, but he has a set of lungs on him.”

“The strudels are forgotten,” Cas swears with his free hand beside his head. Dean stands up, but as soon as he starts walking towards the door, Cas calls, “Oh, and Dean?”

Dean turns around. “Yeah?”

“I like your freckles.”

Cas can see the start of sunburn on Dean’s face too before he closes the door.

 

From then on, Cas vouches to protect Dean from any and all angels: he should be the only one that leaves kisses on his face.

 


End file.
